Page 24 of After the Rain

"I can be your friend," I said slowly. "I can be Cooper's teacher and someone who cares about both of you. But I need honesty, Wade. About your process, about what you're feeling, about where you think this is going. I can't handle more disappearing acts."

"I can do that. Honest communication, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

We talked for another hour, carefully rebuilding the foundation of trust that had been shattered by weeks of silence and confusion.

Wade told me more about his therapy sessions, about confronting fifteen years of marriage that had felt like performance, about the terrifying realization that he might have been living someone else's life.

"How did you know?" he asked suddenly. "When you came out, how did you know you weren't just confused or going through a phase?"

The question hit me like a punch to the chest. I'd been out for over a decade, but talking about those early years still felt like touching an old wound that had healed crooked.

"I was seventeen," I said, staring into my coffee cup like it might contain the courage I needed.

"There was this guy in my AP English class, Timothy Chen.

Brook's older brother, actually. He was everything I thought I should want to be—confident, athletic, popular.

But I didn't want to be him. I wanted to be with him. "

Wade nodded, encouraging me to continue.

"I spent months convincing myself it was just admiration, just wanting to be friends. But then at prom, I watched him dance with his girlfriend, and I realized I wasn't jealous of his success or his popularity. I was jealous of her. I wanted to be the one in his arms."

"What did you do?"

"Had a complete breakdown in the school parking lot." I laughed, but it came out hollow. "Brook found me crying behind the gym and made me tell her what was wrong. She was the first person I said it out loud to: 'I think I'm gay.'"

Wade's eyes never left my face. "How did she react?"

"She hugged me and said, 'Thank God, I was wondering when you were going to figure that out.' Apparently, my crush on Timothy had been obvious to everyone except me."

Wade reached across the table and touched my hand briefly. The contact was gentle, supportive, but he pulled back quickly like he was afraid of being seen.

"When did you finally accept it?"

"Junior year of college. I fell in love with my roommate, Daniel. Not just attraction this time, but real love. The kind that makes you want to build a life with someone. When I imagined my future, it wasn't some theoretical woman I was supposed to find—it was him."

"What happened with Daniel?"

The old ache settled in my chest, familiar and unwelcome. "He was straight. Completely, totally straight. But he was also kind when I told him how I felt. He helped me understand that being gay wasn't something wrong with me—it was just who I was."

"And your parents?"

The question I'd been dreading. This was the part of the story that still carried complicated weight, even after all these years.

"That was... complex. My parents are Methodist—good people with kind hearts, but they struggled with reconciling their faith with having a gay son. They didn't reject me, but they didn't know how to support me either."

Wade's face showed understanding mixed with concern.

"They kept asking if I was sure, suggesting maybe I just needed to pray about it more, find the right girl, give God time to 'work in my heart.' They meant well, but it felt like they were waiting for me to become someone else—someone they could be comfortable with."

"That must have been incredibly isolating."

"It was. They loved me, but they couldn't love all of me. Every family dinner became this careful dance around topics that might remind them I was gay. They'd ask about my job, my apartment, my hobbies—but never about my actual life, never about who I was dating or if I was happy."

Wade reached across the table and touched my hand briefly. "How long did that last?"

"Years. It wasn't until I brought home my first serious boyfriend that things finally came to a head. I was twenty-five, had been teaching for two years, and I was tired of compartmentalizing my life to make them comfortable."

"What happened?"

"They were polite to him but clearly uncomfortable. After he left, my mom cried and asked if this meant they'd never have grandchildren, if I'd ever consider 'trying harder' to find happiness with a woman. My dad just looked disappointed, like I was choosing to make their lives more difficult."

"God, that's awful."

"The worst part was knowing they meant well. They weren't throwing me out or disowning me—they were just... grieving the son they thought they had, the future they'd imagined for me. It felt like I was constantly disappointing them just by existing."

"How did you get through it?"

"Uncle John, mostly. He helped me understand that I couldn't live my life trying to manage other people's emotions about my sexuality. That loving them didn't mean I had to shrink myself to fit their comfort zone."

Wade was quiet for a moment. "And now?"

"Better. Much better. It took time and patience and a lot of honest conversations, but they've learned to love all of me, not just the parts that were easy for them.

They ask about my dating life now, send me articles about LGBTQ issues they think I'd find interesting.

My mom even knits Christmas stockings for whatever boyfriend I bring home. "

"That's beautiful."

"It is. But it took years to get there, and there were moments when I wasn't sure we would."

Wade was quiet for a long moment, processing everything I'd shared.

"I keep thinking about Cooper," he said finally. "About what kind of example I want to set for him. Do I want him to see me living authentically, or do I want him to learn that love is something to hide when it's inconvenient?"

"Those are the right questions to be asking."

"But they're terrifying questions. Because if I choose authenticity, if I choose to explore what I'm feeling for you, it affects him too.

What if other kids bully him because his dad is gay?

What if Sarah's parents try to limit my custody?

What if I destroy his sense of security because I couldn't keep my own confusion private? "

The pain in his voice was devastating. Wade wasn't just grappling with his own identity—he was carrying the weight of how his choices might affect his son.

"Wade, can I tell you something my therapist told me when I was struggling with similar fears?"

He nodded.

"She said that children learn more from watching how we handle adversity than from being shielded from it entirely.

Cooper is going to face challenges in life regardless of your sexuality.

But if he sees you living honestly, if he watches you choose courage over comfort, he learns that it's safe to be authentic even when it's difficult. "

"And if he gets hurt because of my choices?"

"Then you help him through it. You show him that love is worth fighting for, that standing up for who you are is worth the cost. You teach him that he doesn't have to live smaller to make other people comfortable."

Wade's eyes filled with tears he tried to blink away. "It's just so fucking scary. Everything I thought I knew about myself, about my future, about what my life was supposed to look like—it's all wrong."

"Not wrong," I said gently. "Just incomplete. You're not throwing away your past, Wade. You're adding new pieces to the puzzle of who you are."

"How do you do it? How do you live openly in a place like Cedar Falls where people watch your every move and judge you for things you can't control?"

"Some days better than others," I admitted. "There are still moments when I want to hide, when I wonder if it would be easier to move somewhere more accepting. But this is my home, and Cooper needs consistency right now. So I choose to be myself and deal with whatever consequences come."

"Even when it's lonely?"

"Even when it's lonely. Though it's been less lonely lately."

The admission hung between us, carrying weight we weren't quite ready to examine fully.

"Thank you," Wade said quietly. "For sharing all of that. For showing me that it's possible to survive the fear and confusion and come out stronger on the other side."

"You're going to be okay, Wade. Whatever you figure out about yourself, whatever you decide you want—you're going to be okay."

By the time we left the coffee shop, something had shifted between us. Not back to where we'd been—that easy intimacy was gone, probably forever. But forward to something new, something built on honesty and mutual respect rather than confusion and panic.

It wasn't everything I wanted, but it was a beginning.

Monday afternoon found me on playground duty, watching Cooper play with renewed energy and enthusiasm.

The change was remarkable—just one weekend of knowing that the adults in his life were communicating again had transformed him back into the bright, confident child I'd known before the complications began.

"Mr. Mitchell!" Cooper bounded over to me during recess, his face flushed with excitement. "Daddy said you and he are friends again! Does that mean you can come to my birthday party next month?"

The innocent question stopped me cold. Cooper's birthday party would be a family event, likely including Sarah and her parents, Wade's friends and colleagues, people who might have opinions about his gay son's teacher being present.

"I'd have to talk to your dad about that. Birthday parties are family celebrations."

"But you're like family to me," Cooper said with the matter-of-fact certainty that only six-year-olds possessed. "You know all my favorite books and you helped me learn to write my name in cursive and you make Daddy smile. That sounds like family to me."

Christ. How do you explain to a child that love isn't always enough to overcome adult fear and social pressure?

"That's very sweet, Cooper. Let me talk to your dad, okay?"

Cooper nodded and ran back to the monkey bars, leaving me standing alone with the weight of his innocent expectations pressing against my chest.

That evening, my phone rang at eight o'clock sharp.

"Hey," Wade's voice was soft, tentative. "I hope it's okay that I'm calling. I wanted to check in, see how your day went."

We talked for an hour, the conversation flowing more easily than our careful coffee shop reconstruction had managed.

Wade told me about Cooper's excitement over their renewed friendship, about his latest therapy session, about the slow work of untangling thirty-eight years of learned behavior and expectations.

"Cooper asked if I could come to his birthday party," I said when the conversation turned to upcoming events.

Wade was quiet for a moment. "What did you tell him?"

"That I'd have to talk to his dad about it."

"It's going to be complicated. Sarah's parents will be there, some of my business associates, neighbors who've probably heard the rumors. Having you there might create... situations."

"I understand." And I did, even though it hurt. "Cooper's happiness is what matters."

"Is it wrong that I want you there anyway?" Wade's voice was barely above a whisper. "That I don't want to keep hiding the people who matter to me just because other people might be uncomfortable?"

The admission hit me like lightning, hope and heartbreak tangled together so tightly I couldn't separate them.

"It's not wrong to want that. But wanting it and being ready for the consequences are different things."

"I know. And I'm not ready yet. But I'm working on it. Dr. Marlow says authenticity is a practice, not a destination. I'm trying to practice being honest about what I want, even when it scares the hell out of me."

"What do you want, Wade?"

The question hung in the air between us, loaded with possibility and danger in equal measure.

"I want Cooper to be happy and secure. I want to figure out who I am when I'm not trying to be who I think I should be. And I want..." He paused, and I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. "I want you in my life. In whatever way works for both of us."

The confession was everything and nothing, hope and heartbreak wrapped in careful qualifiers. He wanted me, but couldn't say how. He cared, but couldn't promise anything.

"I want that too," I said, because it was true even though it hurt. "But I need you to understand that this is hard for me. Being your friend while I have feelings for you, watching you figure yourself out while I wait on the sidelines—it's not exactly easy."

"I know. And I hate that I'm asking you to do it. But I don't know how else to move forward without losing you completely."

"You won't lose me," I said, and meant it despite everything. "Whatever you figure out about yourself, whatever you decide you want, you won't lose me. But I can't promise it won't change things between us."

"I understand."

We hung up after making plans to maintain regular communication, to focus on Cooper's needs while Wade continued his therapy work. It felt like progress, maybe even hope, but it also felt like the beginning of a very long journey with no guaranteed destination.

Lying in bed that night, I stared at the ceiling and tried to reconcile the competing truths of my situation.

I loved a man who was still figuring out if he could love me back.

I cared about a child whose happiness was tied to adults who might never get their shit together.

I'd committed to being patient while someone else determined the shape of my future.

It should have felt like settling, like accepting less than I deserved. Instead, it felt like the most honest thing I'd ever done—loving someone enough to let them find their own way, even if that way didn't lead back to me.

Whatever happened next, at least we'd built it on truth instead of confusion. Whatever love looked like for Wade and me, it would be real.

Even if real meant broken. Even if it meant waiting. Even if it meant learning to love someone who was still learning to love himself.

The work ahead was going to hurt, but it was also going to be worth it. Cooper deserved adults who chose courage over comfort. Wade deserved the space to discover who he really was.

And maybe, if we were very careful and very brave, we all deserved the chance to build something new from the pieces of what we'd thought our lives were supposed to look like.

But first, we had to survive the rebuilding. And that was going to require more strength than any of us knew we had.